


Slice of Paradise

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 16:00:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1905081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have a morning routine.  The alarm beeps.  John tells Matt to turn it off.  Matt continues sleeping.  John reaches across Matt's prone body to slap at the clock, all the while muttering that if Matt isn't going to turn off the damn alarm then he shouldn't insist on having it on his side of the bed.  John flops onto his back, Matt rolls over and says something sarcastic.  </p>
<p>The routine is comforting.  When something throws it off, John feels off-kilter all day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slice of Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> Little bit o' fluff, written for LJ's smallfandomfest for the prompt "another day in paradise"
> 
> * * *

They have a morning routine. The alarm beeps. John tells Matt to turn it off. Matt continues sleeping. John reaches across Matt's prone body to slap at the clock, all the while muttering that if Matt isn't going to turn off the damn alarm then he shouldn't insist on having it on his side of the bed. John flops onto his back, Matt rolls over and says something sarcastic. 

The routine is comforting. When something throws it off, John feels off-kilter all day.

Like today. 

The alarm beeps as usual, and John gives his opening salvo. But when he reaches across to silence the incessant beeping, there is no sleeping body to get in his way. In fact, the sheets are already cool on Matt's side of the bed. 

He cracks open one eye. Matt's cell phone is also missing from the bedside table. He raises up on one elbow, cocks his head toward the open door. But there is no telltale tapping from the office, no sign that Matt got up in the middle of the night to 'code' or shoot monsters or do… whatever it is he does with Freddie at four in the fucking morning. 

John blinks blearily, flops back onto his back and slings his forearm over his eyes. At this point Matt should be waking up, acting snarky, getting all up in his personal space, probably kissing his elbow or licking down his side or…

But there is nothing. No smart-mouthed punk with an extensive vocabulary refusing to let him get in nine more minutes of sleep before the alarm sounds again. No annoying punk with an extremely talented mouth doing things to him that oughta be illegal, things that make him perk up in more ways than one, make him push the kid into the mattress and reciprocate in kind. Things that make him late for work so often that there's now a weekly betting pool on his arrival times. 

He has to admit, all those things are pretty damn nice. Maybe more than nice. Maybe a _can't imagine life getting better than this_ kind of nice. 

John sighs, slaps at the alarm with five more minutes still left on the snooze cycle and drags his ass out of bed. On mornings like this – on empty-bed mornings, cold-sheet mornings, Matt-free mornings – he feels every one of his fifty three years. He heads to the bathroom, scowls at every deep-set wrinkle revealed in his reflection. 

Coffee. Coffee will make everything better. Or at least it will make things not quite so rotten.

"Heyyyyy," Matt says cheerily as soon as he emerges from the bathroom. "You're finally awake. I thought I was going to have to send in, like, search dogs or call the SWAT team or something. Come on, I made you breakfast!"

John blinks, scrubs a hand over the stubble on his chin. It looks like Matt. Except his Matt has to be dragged kicking and screaming out of bed at seven a.m. and rarely throws a brush through his hair before noon. His Matt lives in his goddamn pajama bottoms, is certainly never dressed in clean jeans and T-shirt when the sun is barely over the horizon.

John turns around and heads back to the bedroom.

"Wait, where are you going?'

"Checking under the bed for pods," John says over his shoulder.

"Hah, okay, funny," Matt says. He reaches out to snag at John's bathrobe. "I haven't been taken over by alien spores, all right? Though if I was I hope they would have the decency to be the ones from the original film and not the far inferior Sutherland remake."

John turns around, raises a brow. "I thought that was gonna be one of those 'old man, I don't know what you're talking about' moments."

Matt snorts. "Are you kidding me? Invasion of the Body Snatchers is a classic, dude. And for the record, you're—"

"Not old," John finishes. "Yeah, yeah. Tell that to my creaking bones."

"It's too early in the morning to talk about boning," Matt says. "Now will you come and eat your omelet before it gets cold?"

"Omelet, huh?" John is sorely tempted to pull Matt back into the bedroom, make him prove that he's not as old as he feels by collecting the morning blowjob that he's gotten used to over the past few months… but now that he mentions it, breakfast does smell pretty damn good. So he lets Matt drag him to the kitchen, takes his seat and then eyes his plate suspiciously. "Mango slices?"

"Nice, right?" Matt asks. "And homemade hash browns _and_ freshly squeezed orange juice."

John is in the process of cutting into his omelet; now he sets the silverware onto the plate, leans back in his chair. "Spill it."

Matt turns in the chair next to him, blinks at him over his own plate of scrambled. "What?"

John sighs. "One, I'm a cop and cops got a built-in bullshit detector. Two, I'm a father and every dad gets buttered up by his kid at some time or another—"

"Okay, McClane, if you're casting me in the kid role in this little scenario of yours, that's… really creepy."

"I'm just sayin' I know the signs, all right? Kid, wife, boyfriend, it don't matter. You want something. So spill it."

"But—"

"You wanna buy some kind of gizmo for your computer that costs half our monthly income, right? And you just gotta have it." At Matt's incredulous expression, John falters. Matt is really good about taking care of all his computer junk out of his own income – and keeping it all in the office, especially after the time that John threw out that tiny little wiry thing the size of his fingernail that turned out to be some sort of expensive doodad that could practically power NASA. "No, not computer stuff," John continues. "So what then… some concert? I'll go as long as it's not one of those screamers. It's a screamer, take Lucy. Or… is it a puppy? Jeeeeezus Matthew, you know how much dogs shed? Plus we gotta train it, we gotta take it out for walks every damn—"

"It's our anniversary," Matt says.

"Last I checked we aren't married, kid."

"Look," Matt says. "I don't want to be one of those jerks who expects to celebrate milestones on a monthly basis, okay? But it's January 4th. And exactly six months ago I was lying in a hospital bed after getting _shot_ , with my leg in a sling, in a shitload of pain, listening to you in the next bed griping about green jello—"

"I don't gripe," John interrupts. 

"—and thinking that for anyone else, it would be a completely _shit_ day. And I was actually happier than I'd been in years because of you. Because I realized I was in love with you and your stupid arms and your lame jokes and your annoying little smirk. So I wanted to do something nice today to commemorate the day, okay? I don't want anything and I don't need anything. I just wanted to make you a goddamn omelet."

John presses his lips together, because he's almost certain that what he wants to say – you're cute when you pout – will make Matt get up and walk straight out of the room. And right now the last thing he wants is Matt locking himself in his office and stewing for the rest of the day. What he wants, actually, is to call in sick and then lay Matt out on the kitchen table and have his way with him. Several times. 

So he waits – cops know all about patience – until Matt can't handle the silence and looks up at him, then cocks his head. "My arms are stupid?"

"They're ridiculous, they're like tanks, it's insane. And don't even get me started on your chest."

"Tanks, huh?"

"Maybe your chest is like a tank and your arms are like bazookas. I don't know, dude, they just seriously make me—"

John's not had any one-on-one combat training in a while, but he's still got the moves when he needs them. He snags one arm around Matt's waist and the other over his shoulders, lifts and has the kid splayed out on the table in near record time.

Old, schmold. Right now he feels about thirty.

"—hot," Matt squeaks out.

"You don't say," John says.

"And there's that smirk! It's not fair, McClane, you've got all that in your arsenal and I've only got—"

"You're a fuckin' genius," John says. "You make me laugh, and I haven't had enough of that in my life, Matthew. And you've got that hair down to a goddamn ass that won't quit and… and I love ya, kid. Maybe I don't say it enough. But I love—"

Matt surges up and swallows the rest of his words, and after a moment John shifts him higher on the table for a better angle. He mentally changes the order of tasks for his morning to fuck the kid to oblivion and _then_ call in sick to work. And when he ends up with cold omelet smeared liberally on unmentionable body parts… 

It really is a little slice of paradise he's got going on here. He makes a mental promise – again – never to fuck it up. 

Then he chases Matt to the shower.


End file.
